Welcome to True Chili’s Cowboy Literature. As with our other endeavors, it has been a long road. But we hope you enjoy reading these stories and poems as much as we did selecting them. So, kick off your boots and welcome to our campfire.
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It's been a while. We've been in a bit of a drought here at Underwood Press. And, it's funny that,
Thoughts of a life that’s as complicated as everyone else’s,struggling for balance, juggling time.The mantle clock that was my grandfather’s
His head bent, his black Stetson nearly covering his eyes, Colby Hanson peered into the wheelbarrow as if looking for
When I was just a young guy,I wanted to grow up and punch cows in the mountains up high.Well I
A cowboy, sitting in a saloon, (talking politics that applied to eitherside) quoted Mark Twain – said to the barkeep,
It’s better to ride on the top of the stageThan to sit in the cramped space belowWhere there may be
We have a slice of prairie in frontFarmland restored to natural stateA meadow, our driveway’s open gate Path markers invite
Riding into life’s sunset,he watches the early morning kiss the skyand ponders the warrior question,“Is today a good day to
Low in the sky, the shadowy moonshawls your dirt road, your red barnthe shit-shuffled corral.Black and abstract, pinion pines,lone sentinels
The 1880 Arizona territory sun glared down like the eye of a vengeful god. The town of Dry Creek sat
For Paulie I “He weren’t no great hero you know. Just flesh and blood like the rest of us. But
On the ridge, overlooking the Rio Grande, Felina sat atop her horse, her long shadow casting down along the canyon
Hatty Sternberger poured the last spade full of dirt onto her husband Randall’s grave. She hadn’t yet bought a headstone
Somewhere, a mother runs her handsover a shirt she can’t bear to wash.The scent of leather and dust still clings,as
by Sulayman Thani al-Dhiyabat al-Huwayti translated and adapted by William Tamplin You wanted to hear my story, so I’ll tell
This is a story told to me by my grandfather, Orla Hicks. He told me this story several times. I
Bushwhacked He heard the crack of the rifleThe burning low in his backHands reaching for the saddleGrip failing, reins going
Connie saw him, sitting tall in the saddle two hundred yards from the road shoulder, hat in hand, his
After Penelope PelizzonHe has always been freakish and tragic,especially here, among the scowling birds of the slow-frying boonies. Freakish werethe
I've learned that one will never say 'I'm sorry,'And rarely 'please' or 'thank-you.' Who knows why?If you know someone like
